Blood in the Lily
by his-little-troll
Summary: Based on Scandinavian Folklore concerning the Fossegrim/nøkken (AU). Sherlock must save a little girl from drowning, but at a very heavy price. Sherlolly


**Blood in the Lily**

**Part One: The Promise**

Sherlock played quietly, watching the music swirl and move against the water. Soft sounds hovered over the water, caressing the smooth surface like fog. He eyed the lilies and the fish below the crystal clear surface. To them he was invisible, a force that kept them safe. He had been there longer than the trees around the lake. He had resided in the trickling streams and the calm run of currents over rock before the lake shrank away from the oceans. He had lived alone in his island long before the salt filtered away.

He did not want to remember the men and women snared below. He did not want to think of the children with eyes forever captured in dreamy wonder, lured to death by his song. He resisted as he often as he could. He resisted as long as his fingers would allow. The ache in his bones would slip across his mind and root itself. The loneliness was like a parasite, taking his will and pushing it aside. A catch 22. He could bring sentient beings to his home, his prison. He could speak, he could have companionship. The result was always the same. They could not handle his home for long. The currents ran strong beneath the surface, pulling flailing arms and legs down.

He could have company, but he couldn't. It was too dangerous. So often, he refused to play, scaring away curious children with whispers and only tempting the worst of men and women to his watery depths. But oh how achingly lonely his life could be.

So it was with a heavy heart that he played in the setting evening sun. He started off with a watchful eye. He stared down the road steadily, waiting and waiting for the moment he saw footsteps crest the hills or a hand break the fringe of the forest. Not long after he began his newest piece, he got caught up, swept away in the only sound to drive away the darkness of his curse. He turned and swept around the lake surface, the swish and swing of water off of his skin like a caress of all who'd passed before. A blessing. All they'd ever wanted was to hear him play.

It was because of his sweeping arms and soul-filled playing that he did not see them come over the hill. He did not see her yellow sundress, or the bow flapping in the windy woods. He did not see the farmer with his bag and pole, or the picnic held in too thin arms. He didn't know they approached until he heard the snap of a twig, until he felt the break in the calm water.

The farmer set up his cast, not paying attention to his little girl slipping through the water. She was waist deep now.

Sherlock panicked, dropping the violin back into the water and hurrying to where she struggled against the weeds wrapping round her legs. He could not push her back. He could not stop her. Hadn't they heard the rumors? Hadn't anyone warned them? Even newcomers usually learned of the dangers of his lake early.

He looked back at the farmer. He tried to think of any way to call attention to the girl, now shoulder deep into his calm waters. She would be in over her head soon. She would be drowning soon. Curse it all, why did they come on this day? Why did he have to play on this day? He picked up a rock, a smooth piece of his home, and tossed it hard at the man's back.

It bounced off his shoulder, landing on the wet silt with a dull thud. Startled, the stocky man turned just in time to see the water slip over his daughters mouth. The way he stuttered at Sherlock's silent presence told him enough. The man was new here, and had gone straight to the lake to fish for supper. No time for warnings, no time for fraternizing with the neighbors. Just put his daughter in imminent danger.

The farmer waded in and tried to pull her back but Sherlock knew the real trap. The lake had claimed her, wanted her for its own. She was a guest, a visitor. The lake was starved of visitors. He'd not played in so long…

"Help me! Help me!"

"I can't. I can't touch her." Sherlock stood helplessly, watching the realization dawn on the man's features. His daughter did not struggled against the water in her nose as she inched further.

"Why the hell not? Help!"

"If I touch her, she becomes mine. She'll never be free from this lake."

"Will she drown?" The water sloshed up the father's shoulders. "Will she die?"

"… Not yet." Sherlock's stomach sank. He knew where this conversation was going.

"Save her! Save her now!" Desperation. That's all this was. Desperation. The man didn't know what he was asking.

"She'll be—"

"I don't care! Save her!" The struggling farmer was doing no good. The water now slipped over her eyebrows. She couldn't possibly breathe. She was going to drown.

So Sherlock stopped his protests with a heavy steps. He moved slowly forward, pulling the girl from below her arms until she was level with him, standing on the mirror surface of the lake. She snapped to awareness, tears welling in her eyes. Something like fear lit in him, fear at the silent way she cried and the slight tremble as she sobbed in his hands. This was not freedom. She knew what her father did not. She had known the minute he touched her.

"Your daughter is to be a prisoner in this lake for the remainder of her days. I can't save her now. You never should have let me touch her." Sherlock drifted to the shore and set the quivering little body onto the rough ground.

"You didn't say… You didn't tell me… You should have…" The farmer could not finish his thoughts. The sight of his pale and trembling daughter was enough to break the attempts to alleviate his own guilt. "Is there nothing we can do?"

Sherlock went quiet, sitting himself onto a rock to think. He had never touched someone before. There'd never been anyone to save them. His victims had invariably been alone before, ignoring the warnings and signs of danger outlined by well-meaning acquaintances. No one had survived long enough for this to be an issue.

He was a nøkken notorious for his reluctance to play, and for the heartbreaking songs produced when he did. An open disdain for humanity had kept most of them at bay by itself, and an even greater disdain for other nøkken had kept him alone longer than that. He did not understand the rules of his kind but he could, for the sake of this girl, bend the rules of theirs.

"I cannot keep her from coming back to this lake. I cannot keep her safe forever. But I can vow to resist playing as long as possible if you can vow to keep her away. You will have to be vigilante. Follow all of my instructions. She will be drawn back here, without varying, for the rest of her life."

The farmer nodded, wide eyes and gaping mouth giving away his rattle nerves. "I'll do whatever necessary. Whatever necessary."

"Listen to me. You have to remember this. You have to be stern in this, forever."

"Whatever necessary."

And so Sherlock began to explain how he could postpone the curse.

"You'll have to take her away, but not too far. She will have to keep daily contact with water from the lake, or she will wither. She's part of it, as I am, now. Always keep an object of pure steel on her. It is best kept low, so that it will enter the water quickly if she comes back here. The steel will counteract the spell long enough for her to get away. That is all it will do, is prevent her drowning. It will not break the spell." He watched as every new rule slowly processed over the farmers head.

"Steel is expensive. Pure steel… How will I get that?" The man mumbled to himself, but this was a problem he'd already anticipated.

Sherlock lowered himself to the water, pulling from one of his earlier victims. He had never taken from them before. It felt wrong, but they were gone and she was not. It was clear what he had to do. A thin ring, intricately carved into the twists of a snake, would do well enough. When he resurfaced, it was to a terrified man splashing around in the waters. Searching for him no doubt.

"I was simply procuring a method for which you will receive the steel. This ring was from a wealthy woman drowned here long ago. There is not steel enough here to help you. I suggest selling it so that you may buy a suitable ornament." Sherlock studied the pair for a moment. "Tell her it was her mother's. That will ensure she wears it."

"How did you—"

"Why else would you drag your daughter along with you to fish? No one else to watch her at home. You are evidently not accustomed to keeping an eye on younger ones while you go about your day to day. So it was a recent loss." The step back was confirmation enough. "So tell her it was her late mother's, whatever bauble you manage to find, and she will always wear it. It is imperative that you listen to whatever I say."

"Yes, yes. Whatever you say."

"It's not just agreeing, you have to actually do it." Eyes blank with shock snapped to attention as the man nodded at Sherlock's reprimand.

"Make sure she keeps the steel on at all times. Keep her busy, keep her away. For as long as you can. This should work until…" Sherlock took a deep breath. "Until she turns twenty one."

"Why twenty one?" The farmer's lips were white, his hands shaking at his side. "What happens at twenty one?"

"Once she becomes an adult there is nothing I can do to keep her away. The spell is lenient on children. It gains power the minute she grows into a woman." He looked away, watching the girl's breathing rise and fall. The scare had knocked her out. He couldn't blame her for being exhausted. She had almost died, after all.

"I lose her? I lose her…"

"You should have kept a closer eye on her. Who let's their children wander around alone?"

There is no retaliation, only the thinning of the man's lips. It softens Sherlock's sudden anger, dulls it back down beneath the roar of regret thrumming under his calm exterior.

"I will try to find a way to break the spell. I promise."

And it was many years until Sherlock saw the girl named Molly again.

**Part Two: The Agreement**

Sherlock had avoided playing for many years. The girl would have to be at least twelve by now. He'd estimated her age to be about six or so when she'd stepped into his waters. Bits of memory had been left behind in the rock and weeds where she'd crumpled the earth. Bits of a little girl, lost and saved on the same day. He heard from the farmer weekly, when the man came down to gather the water.

Sherlock had suggested using the water in soups and washbasins, anything to keep her in contact. He'd worked on the premise of making sure she didn't know. What child would want to know her days were numbered? What child would want to know she was a prisoner to a lake? The knowledge would only push her into rebellion. Better to have her forget.

Without the soothing lull of his violin, the harrowing emptiness of his home beat through him. The silence grew louder and louder each day, unbearable and unbroken. Fingers heavy with notes not played hurt for the bow in his hands. Songs unsung pulsed against his lips. Magic and power built around the lake like tangible forces waiting to be unleashed. And still he kept silent. And still he kept his vows.

If only the farmer had been so kind.

He had been staring longingly at the curve of his violin, counting every string and thinking every note, when he heard the humming.

It was quiet at first, coming over the hill. A local favorite, the song was about fairies in the trees. It was idyllic and hardly accurate except that there was _something _vaguely fairy like in the branches. Still, the humming grew closer, distinctly feminine in pitch. He knew, without a sliver of doubt, who would crest that hill and descend the path to his lake.

She was wearing another sundress, this time without a matching floppy bow. Her hair was pulled back, her eyes bright as she surveyed the walkway. She was looking for him. Did she know? Probably not. It was so long ago. She probably didn't even remember.

He tried to hide, but she wouldn't leave until she found him. Maybe the farmer would realize she'd wandered off and would come drag her away.

Despite all of his best intentions, he wanted her to find him. He wanted to speak to someone. To be seen by someone. Someone not held fast to the bottom of his lake. Someone with a pulse and breath. Someone who didn't blame him for their heartache. Maybe he would have tried harder if he had been able to play his violin. Then again, would it have mattered if he'd have been able?

He peeked from beneath the lilies, watching her rest her feet just on the edge of the water. Silvered steel glinted down at him, little spots of white light bouncing off the rocks. She still looked innocent, still seemed kind. He ran a hand over the undisturbed footprints of the child who had walked just yesterday. Suddenly the years seemed short, as if she had just been so small last week, walking into the clear water.

"You can come out. I know you're there." Her voice is calm, though she doesn't look at him. He notices the small bag hanging off her arm.

She's rummaging through and pulling out sandwiches and tarts, the sweet smell of cloudberries hitting his nose. She doesn't look at him even as she sets two places. He doesn't move, though he winces as she dips her toes into the water. Memories stream towards him from the contact. Summer dresses, laughing friends, soups with her father. Scraps of humanity swirling into his lake. Living humanity. Food for a lonely beggar.

"Come on now, I didn't sneak away from home just to have you stare at me from over there. Get up here and eat some cloudberry tart. They're really sweet this time of year."

It was go up and tell her to go away, or stay down surrounded by her sinking memories. So he stepped forward, wrapping himself in a coat of ice and grass. She stared at him with nothing but curiosity, as if she observed an old dream.

"Remove your feet from the lake. Where is your father?"

"He's sleeping. He's quite a tired fellow in his young age."  
>"Didn't he tell you not to come here?"<p>

"Of course he did. Why do you think I came?" He knew why she came, but he suspected she did not. "You sound different than I'd expected. I'd never heard you speak before."

"You expected?" His brow knit together. "You remember me?"

"Of course. Not every day a girl hears music as beautiful as that." She burned bright red, and he forced himself not to roll his eyes.

"I won't play for you."

"Of course you won't." She picks apart her sandwich before she lifts her gaze back up to him. He still stands. She thrusts a tart up to him. "It really is sweet."

She watches him until he takes a bite, and then she looks down again. "See now. It really is sweet." And she's right. It's delicious. The first human food he's ever eaten.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. That's the best food we've had in years and I've just given it to you." She smirks at him. He's surprised. "Tell me, how can I get you to teach me violin?"

"I cannot teach you." He answers immediately. "I will not teach you violin. You shouldn't come here again."

"You think I won't get away again. The more you tell me to stay away the more I want to come here."

"I won't let you come here. It's not safe." She just quirks an eyebrow at his declaration.

"And if I managed to find out your name, Sherlock?"

He stops mid scoff. No one alive has heard that name. No one near or far should have heard that name. How then had she found it? His question reflected on his face, garnering only a giggle from her.

"It doesn't matter. You can't hold power over me. It's a battle you've already lost."

"I wasn't aware we were fighting. What will make you teach me to play violin as you do? Your music has haunted me since I heard it all those years ago. If you won't play it, I will."

Expectant eyes drilled into him, every signal from her tense back to her bitten lip telling him she wasn't giving up. With a sigh and sagging shoulders he picked up a stone, whispering quiet instructions into the smooth surface. The words carved themselves in curved writing, each item marked clearly against the pale gray. He passed the stone over and took another bite of the tart.

She didn't look at it before she dropped it into her bag, a smile breaking over her lips.

"So then, what's it like being a spirit of the water?"  
>"I'm not a spirit or a fairy or any other silly idea you've put in your head. I'm a nøkken. I'm dangerous." She looked him over, clearly unimpressed.<p>

"You don't look dangerous."

"People don't have to look dangerous to be dangerous."  
>"You're not a person." She popped a hand over her mouth, blush burning underneath her fingers.<br>"Thank you for that." He kept his voice wry, slumping back down into the coolness of his lake. "Are you always this rude?"

"You seem to bring out the worst in me." She took another big bite of tart, her sandwich forgotten on the dirt beside her. "My friends think you don't exist. They didn't believe me."

"If you found my name, you did research. If you researched, you know I'm not some fluffy, lost little sprite. I'm a monster and you shouldn't be here."

She gave him a pointed stare, shoved the last bit of tart in her mouth, and stood up. Nimble fingers plucked the bits of weeds and pebbles from her dress. With another smile, innocent pearly teeth shining back at him, she turned her back. "And yet, I was. See you soon."

He did not see her soon. She didn't come back for another four years, and he was grateful that she stayed away. He was grateful that her father came to his senses and kept a better eye on her. He was grateful for all of it. Even for the taste of cloudberry tart on his tongue, and the sweet memory of a little girl pushing her boundaries and engaging a poor grumpy nøkken.

When she returned she was a spirited sixteen years old. He'd felt the pressure of numbered days stifling him. Just a few more years. Just a few more falls and springs and summers and winters. He spent his evenings trying to avoid stepping in the places she'd stepped, and the bits of water still left where she'd dipped her toes. She was quiet humanity, invading his place of quiet, reminding him what was to be lost. And all his fault, for not holding out another day or another week or another year.

Worst of all, he knew that the moment time was up, he would play again. Even now, the urge to pick up and revisit old strings, revisit old songs and new melodies, fought within him.

Yet, she skipped along the path, plopping down on his bank. She threw her feet into the water, not bothered by the water creeping up her jeans or the grass tickling her bare feet. And she stared at him without the bit of wonder she'd allotted him last time.

"I found the things on your list. It was really difficult, because you were vague and I didn't want to give you the chance to turn me down. I also did some research and found out that if you weren't impressed with me already, you could turn me down." He notes the large bag she dropped behind her. He's surprised, to say the least.

"You actually brought all of it?"

She pulled out a smooth stone, the words still carved as clearly as they had been the day he whispered his ingredients. "I hope you don't mind, but I had to take some liberties. I'm only sixteen, so vodka was incredibly difficult to get. I was only able to take a little bit from my dad's secret stash."

"Hardly seems secret now." She doesn't look at him, but he notices her lips twitch upwards.

"And the black animal was difficult because I didn't want to actually kill anything. So I brought a kitten. She's alive. You can't keep her."

"I never said it had to be dead."

"Good point." She finishes by pulling out a small knife which she used to prick the end of her finger. Three drops into his water, followed by a splash of vodka from a jar, and a kitten darting from the bag. "Don't worry, she didn't travel far in there. I wanted to surprise you. I guess she fell asleep."

"I'm not teaching you."

This time when her face turns red, it's not a blush. He can see anger flashing behind her eyes. "What do you mean you're not going to teach me? I brought all the stuff."

"That was years ago. Besides, I never expected you to get them." He watches the kitten batting at a fish at the edge of the water before it scurries away. "You were twelve after all. I'd assumed you'd forgotten about them."

"Forgotten? I hear the violin in my dreams. I see the water, smell the lilies, feel grass around my feet. I have followed my dad down this path once a week for years, listening to him lament the day I—" She breathes in deeply, stands up.

She knows. She's always known. He doesn't know how he's missed the signs. Maybe he'd just never wanted to. Now he is aware of the shadow over her features, the darkness lurking behind her eyes. She's known all this time. And still, she's here.

"You should go home. You shouldn't be here."

He's not expecting the sharp sting on his cheek. She's openly crying now, but her hand is still held in front of her where it had collided with his face. He frowns, thoughts processing slow.

He's changed his mind, but not before she's turned on her heels and run away.

The sting of her slap lasts much longer than it should. He expects it to be another few years before she returns. Maybe she won't come back until the curse forces her. Maybe she'll find her own way out and she'll stay away forever.

He's wrong. She's back the next week, mouth set in a thin line. She hasn't forgiven him, but she's brought a violin. He knows immediately it's hers, from the moment she sets it up. She's grown used to this instrument, used to its curves and soft spots.

The tune that she plays is beautiful, one of the best he's ever heard from a human. She plays for several minutes, a piece he doesn't recognize. That can only mean she's done it herself.

"Doesn't sound like you need me to teach you. You seem to have a handle on it." He said as soon as she'd finished.

"I don't care what you think. I've heard what you can do. I've read about your music stopping the waterfalls and making the trees dance."

He scoffs at her belief in those silly folk stories. "I can do no such thing."

"I've heard you play. It's beautiful, and I want to be able to play like you."

He waits to see if she'll back down. He's sure that if he just doesn't do anything, he can outlast her, chase her away without risking further slaps. She doesn't move, and he's not sure how long they stare off.

In the end, it is the mew of Nyx, the kitten he's decided to feed, that breaks their battle. He stretches out a hand to ruffle the fur on the top of her head, appreciating the purr against his palm. Molly sees, and with the ghost of a grin over pale lips, she strikes a deal. A real one.

"You can keep her here if you teach me. I'll keep coming back anyway. You know I will. So if you teach me violin, instead of us just fuming at each other, I'll bring proper food for her and you can keep her."

He looked at the kitten curling against the rocks on the bank, fur damp from his petting. He thought of Molly's fate, and the fact that it had weighed on her all this time. He replayed the haunting melodies of her violin, beautiful in their own way, even if they didn't stop waterfalls. Reluctantly, as though without volition, he nodded.

"You will come on the fourth day of each week. I cannot play, but I will do my best to teach you." She nodded at him. "I will teach you all that I know, but I don't know how to make the waterfalls stop or the trees dance."

"That's fine." She's incredibly still, incredibly quiet for someone so obviously bursting with energy. The moment is too serious, too big for someone so young.

In a moment of spontaneous excitement, she rummages around in the pockets of her swishy dress. Half her arm practically disappears before she pulls out something small and round wrapped in paper.

"It's not cloudberry, but it's good. Really good. I promise."

He tilts his head at her, accepting the small gift delicately. It smells just a bit sweet. He can tell by the crumbling crust and slightly dried top of the tart that it's a few days old. Slowly, he takes a bite, mouth filled with the slight tang of raspberries. They weren't in season, so she'd probably used chilled fruit to make it. The taste isn't as strong as the fresh cloudberries had been, but it's been a long time since he's had a gesture of kindness.

"Thank you, Molly." He considers for a moment, as she stands with her eyes averted and her arms clasped behind her back. Before he can talk himself out of it, he leans forward and kisses her cheek. Once again, she blushes, but this time it is only a pinkness across her nose.

He doesn't risk talking to her any longer. Instead he sinks into his water, watching her from behind the lilies. She gathers her violin and her bow, and skips back up the path.

The farmer is doing a particularly bad job at keeping up his end of the bargain.

The most dangerous part of all is that Sherlock is glad for this. How selfish lonely men can be, that he would risk her life to hear her play the violin.

**Part Three: The Lessons**

To his surprise, she did not show up the next week or the several weeks after that. Every time her father would rustle the leaves of the trees to gather her water, he jumped expectantly. The moment he recognized the farmer he would sink back into his lake, waiting until the man left.

He watched the farmer grow more haggard and thin over the years. More than once he had muttered to himself about weak crops and his rebellious daughter. Bits and pieces of memory slid into the water with each touch of his hand to the smooth surface. Often the memories were of his passed wife or his young daughter, sometimes venturing into sales or quiet moments alone. Sherlock had acquired, over the years, a handful of true moments between the father and the daughter. He avoided the threads of humanity, with less and less success as he waits for her to come back so he can hear the music play.

Three years after they struck their deal, she showed up on the fourth day of the week. Just as agreed, despite her tardiness. He attempted to hide his annoyance, but she caught it anyway.

"Dad got really paranoid. He started keeping a close eye on me. The older I get, the worse he gets. I know he's having a hard time of it, but if it's inevitable, it's inevitable, right?"

"He just wants to protect you. Delay it as long as he can."

Nyx has caught his attention, playful paws batting at the coat he only dons when she's around. He's grown quite fond of her, and he remembers part of their deal. Molly has already remembered, and brings out bits of fish and a handful of dark pebbles. Surprisingly, the cat gobbles them up. Whatever they were, they must have tasted better than the raw fish he'd provided the kitten with. In moments, Nyx is mewing and playing between them. He stifles the smile the show elicits.

"I'm the one who's delayed it. I know why I'm drawn here, but I've been able to visit here as often as I do without being forced in. I figure the spell knows its boundaries and is waiting."

"It's the steel. Not the spell." He doesn't know why exactly he says it, but the turn of her lips downward tells him she hadn't been aware of her anklets purpose.

"I'd always wondered about it. The timing was all wrong, but I wanted to believe it was something she'd left me. She left so little, after all." Molly fidgeted with the ring around her ankle, and Sherlock worried for a moment that she would pull it off. He released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding when she let it go and looked back to him. "Makes sense though."

An awkward silence hangs between them, her violin laid across her lap and her bow held loosely in one hand.

"So, let's begin."

"He's going to die soon."

They speak at the same time, and Sherlock's throat tightens. Molly doesn't meet his eyes, but he can tell this is something she wants to talk about. He's not good with human emotion or human comfort, and his recent experience hasn't made him any better. So he says nothing.

"He's really sick. He thinks I don't notice it, but I do. He doesn't go out much, and I think at least part of it is my fault. He's so worried."

The words bubble up, a strange experience for him. "It's not your fault."

She sniffles, wipes her hands against her face. "Thanks, but you're not there. You don't know."

"He's getting older, Molly. That's all." He shouldn't have said anything at all.

"He barely eats. He mumbles under his breath constantly. I don't know what to do."

He doesn't think about it. He doesn't even consider the ramifications of what he's about to do. He touches her hand, bending over the grit and silt to level with her. She breathes in sharply, then averts her eyes. For the first time he realizes she is not a child anymore. The five year old, the twelve year old, the sixteen year old, they are all separate people in his mind, each on detached from the other. Memories trickle in a thin stream at their contact, moments in time she'd never meant to share with anyone else. Arguments with her friends, sneaking out of the house at night, humming during her chores, her first kiss. His hand jerks away at the last one, a tingling sensation creeping across his own lips. The thought makes him blanch.

"You've not been to your lessons because you've been taking care of him." It's not a question, but more a curious statement.

"Yeah. He's just… after that last trip here, I was so excited. He caught me on the way home, carrying my violin. He's been suspicious since I bought the damned thing, but that day he was furious." She wrapped her hand around her knees, her jeans already dirty. "We got in a big fight. I thought he was just mad when he went to bed that night but…"

He remembered the last few times the farmer had stopped by. He'd never paid close attention to the wheezing way the man breathed or the too common coughing spells, but now he wished he had. If the man died before Molly was told everything it could be deadly for her. What if she had removed the steel? What if she'd come down here and entered the water? She could have died before her time was up. She could have been gone early.

"The problem is with his lungs?"

"Ironic, isn't it? I'm the one that supposed to drown, but here he can't breathe." She picks at a stray string on the edge of her jeans, eyes still brimmed with tears.

"This isn't your fault." He wants to put his hand back on his shoulder, but he refuses the contact. He still has bits of her memories flashing across his thoughts, invading places previously occupied only by stretching silence.

"Let's start. I shouldn't be bothering you with my business." She runs her hand under her nose one more time before jumping to her feet, violin at the ready.

They spend hours perfecting posture, sharpening notes, testing range. By the time she left, he could see she was exhausted. Something about the tired smile warmed his chest, an unwelcome and unique experience for him. At least there were no tears in her eyes, and she did not expect any comforts from him on her leaving.

The next few weeks went similarly, excluding the heartfelt beginning. She would show up, and he would instruct her on the basics, over and over. She never complained, never failed to smile at him as she left. It wasn't until she came in shaking on the second weekday, no violin in hand, that their fragile building relationship shook.

"He doesn't remember that he forgot to bring the water. He's been lying in bed all day." She was biting her lip, bucket pulling against the lake. He watched the tips of her fingers skim the calm water, trickling memories winding round his calves.

He said nothing.

"I guess I should have expected it. He's been getting worse all month. I just… I never thought he'd forget."

"Maybe he was just late getting to it."

"We ran out two days ago. I didn't think about it at first, because he's always tried to hide it from me. But then…" She breathes deeply, bucket swinging by her knees as she stands. He does not miss the way her gaze sticks to the surface of the water, tracing over the bumps and stems of leaves against the crystal smoothness. "It gets stronger, when I'm sad."

He knows that two days is too long without contact. The farmer should have listened. The farmer should have told her. No good had come from trying to keep it a secret. No good at all.

He kneels, ice slithering through the cracks of his hand. In seconds he has a cup formed from the very water she craved. Ever movement witnessed, he scoops just enough water to stave off the call and moves to her. She doesn't move closer to him, doesn't step forward to drink. Instead she stands stubbornly, eyes half lidded, mouth parted. He's seen her memories. He's seen the nature of her dreams, the thoughts she tucks away into the forbidden corners of her mind. Does she even realize?

He steps to her and places a hand behind her neck, tilting her head back. Brown eyes lock steadfast to blue. "Open wider, I have to make sure you get enough."

She obliges, ice brushing against red lips. He hadn't realized she'd worn lipstick today. It suits her. Red, vibrant against all the paleness around them. Even his best attempt leaves water trailing bubbling from the corners of her mouth to slide down her neck. She doesn't look away, even as he steps back. He senses the shift. There is no name to it. He can't say for certain which one of them feels it first. She turns slowly, bucket held in her hand, eyes still lingering on his frozen form.

The ice in his hand melts by the time he remembers to reenter the water.

The farmer doesn't come by to get the water anymore. Their lessons pass with tense silence, broken only by his barked out instructions. She still smiles when she leaves, but as the weeks wore on her expression became more and more withdrawn, her eyes steeped in shadows of worry.

Months pass and she's moved on to whole pieces for practice. Some of them were pieces he'd written himself. Some were written by older nøkken. She struggled less and less with each lesson. If she messed up she started over. One day, as the sun is setting and their lesson ends, there is nothing but the slightest slip of her lips upwards. She'd finally finished a full piece all the way through for the first time, and he found her reaction to be greatly lacking for the accomplishment.

"How is he?" She doesn't ask who he means or what he's talking about. Wobbly knees sink down to the dirt, face buried in thin hands.

"He doesn't get out of bed anymore. He doesn't speak anymore. I'm so afraid…"

He walks silently, slowly, to her side, careful to place his hands only where her shirt protects her skin. He's never been good with words. So he stands and waits for her to continue.

"I'm so afraid he'll pass and I won't know immediately. He won't eat or drink or talk or… The only way I know he's alive is the coughing. He's always coughing." She turns into his arm, places her head against his chest.

He has to be cold. His skin is covered only in water and grass, only clothed in his home solidified. She doesn't appear bothered by the scratch of weeds against her skin as she cries. He doesn't coo or shh her, he only stands with his arms around her shoulders. It is a soft sorrow of loss, of a possibility to great.

He realizes all the things she may not know, all the things the farmer probably didn't tell her. There may never be another time, and he'd hate to see her lost two years early.

"Molly, listen to me. I need you to pay attention to this, ok?"

"Ok."

"You have to drink the water. You have to do it. Even when you're sad, even you're alone, you have to drink the water from the lake. Otherwise the need to return will grow too strong, and you'll drown yourself early. Do you understand?"

She looks at him, horrified. He'd done it wrong. He should have been kinder with the demands, should have breached the subject gently, but he didn't know how. He continued.

"You have to wear the steel. I know he lied to you about it, and at some point you're going to get upset about that and want to take it off but you have to wear it. If you don't, and you come into the water…" He doesn't know when he gripped her shoulders or when he got so close to her, but the need to make sure she understands him overrides his need for boundaries. "I can't save you a second time. I won't be able to pull you out."

"What does it matter? I've only two years left."

The words break him. He's watched her live and breathe and laugh and demand. She's given him hope for less lonely times, hope to hear the violin ring out again. Her memories, thoughts, the very essence of Molly, slid through his fingertips. Moments in the dark where she counted each of her days. Boys she refused because they wanted a future. The ended kisses, the broken friendships, the nights spent crying into her crossed arms because tomorrow was another day closer to the day she would drown. And the ever present call thrumming just below the surface of her anxiety. Had he ever truly seen her?

He kisses her, lips moving against hers. She's soft and he's not. She's warm against his cold, life against his ever-lingering death. All of her color and light presses against his blacks and blues and pale, pale whites. Her mouth responds against his just as he pulls away. He tries not to show the horror of what he's done on his face, but she reads it in him anyway. She turns to run, eyes stormy, when he stops her with a grab of her hand.

"It matters, Molly. You matter. To me."

She stops, but does not face him again. "Thank you, Sherlock."

From that day, she uses his name during their lessons. She gathers her water, speaks of her father, and leaves until their lesson. Sherlock grows more anxious as she grows more adept at playing. He has less and less to teach her. She's playing complicated pieces that he only bothers with on his longest days. The sighs of the note and the twirl of music through the fog eases the building need in his hands and heart for his own playing. Her laughter eases the need for companionship, for safety, for more that he'd never known he wanted.

Three weeks before her twentieth, her father dies.

She doesn't tell him right away. He grows worried as she misses gathering her water. He paces at the passing of the fourth day, still without word. By the second week of her absence he determines to find her.

He is halfway down the path when he sees her coming towards him. She is dressed in a black day dress, a hat battling the wind atop her hair. He sees the same red lipstick from the last time she'd been late for her water.

She passes him without seeing. She's going to the lake, but she doesn't seem to care or realize where her feet are taking her.

He'd tried to warn her.

He'd nearly begged her.

He's back at the lake just as she take a single step into the water, eyes staring vacantly ahead. He grabs her hand, and immediately he's hit by the weight of her grief.

A lonesome funeral. She's the only one in the pews, the preacher tossing her pitying glances. The dead silence when she returns from a friend's house. Panic when she sees his stiff form. All the clawing fears and brokenness carving out the happiest moments she'd had with him and leaving nothing in its wake. The persisting numb of the last two weeks.

He can't stop her if she continues. He can't keep her from drowning. He calls her anyway, hysteria edging into the icy calm of his voice.

"Molly."

She stops mid step. She's not far enough in to be completely gone. He can feel the faintest pulse of resistance. There is a part of her that still wants to live, beating faintly against the shell of depression that's stolen her.

"Molly, come back this way. Come back from the water."

It's slow, like the vacancy fading from her eyes. The dawning of where she is and what she's nearly done comes like the lifting of a fog. She stumbles the final steps, supported only by his hand in hers. She vomits at the bank, heaving breaths bowing her back. He's patient through her calming, waiting until she's ready to stand. When she is calm enough to sit at the lake shore, still shaken, he cups the water in his palm and makes her drink.

"I would have helped." The words pass without his permission. He's surprised by the pain in his voice, by the quiver against his lips.

"Why? Who am I to you that you care? I thought you were a monster, Sherlock?" There's no malice in the observation, and perhaps that stings most of all.

"I'm certainly not a person."

"God, Sherlock." She reaches for him, wrapping thin fingers around the stiff coat of weeds. He does not resist her pull. "I almost died."

"A whole year early." He whispers it against her hair, her breath warm against his neck. She stills at his words, and he knows he's misspoken. Again.

He pulls her back to look into her face, trying to impart the odd importance she has taken on in his limited world. He has not experienced this before. He's not sure if any nøkken ever has.

"Every day counts. Every second, every meeting. Every successful minute you're alive, counts, Molly."

Her gaze slides away, tears tracking silently down her cheeks. She doesn't understand, and he doesn't have the words. He doesn't know what to say or how to show her. He traces her jawline with a fingertip, watching the dilation of her eyes, the sharp intake of breath as he forces her to face him again. She has been a spark in a dark world. He presses his lips to hers, and she responds.  
>There is not passion or want. Only understanding. Only soothing hurt, gentle relief of sadness.<p>

There are no more lessons. She returns anyway.

**Part Four: The End**

Her twentieth year is spent avoiding the subject of her death. She eats cloudberry tarts often, and spends most days at the lake. He tries not to notice her eyes lingering on the glossy surface of the water. He tries not to notice the way her laughter trails off, or the occasional lull in her attention.

Maybe it's selfish, but he wants to hold on to the illusion as long as he can.

He's no closer to finding out how to break the spell than he was the day she'd stepped into the lake. Any thoughts he have lead nowhere. Even if he was to try to send her away, she would simply wither without the water, drawn to it like the starving to food or the burning to water. She was as caged as he was, anchored to this land by the water. He only has one theory that has any chance, and the longer he thinks on it, the less likely it is to work. But he has to try.

The night before her twenty first birthday, she brings a bottle of lakka and a variety of tarts. She's calm for the day, opposed to his shattered nerves. He's got the pieces to his unlikely plan laid out, ready to explain everything to her when she places a finger against his lips.

"I'm probably going to die tomorrow. I'd like to celebrate today."

The drink burns in his throat, but leaves an aftertaste of cloudberry. He wonders if he'll ever try one again after this night. There's no one else to bring them to him, and no way for him to get them. He knows this is the last of many things.

She talks to him about her life, about memories he's seen and some he hasn't. She talks about her mother, and the pregnancy that killed her. She talked about her first boyfriend, and her last boyfriend. She covers a lifetime in a few hours, uninterrupted. She laughs through every moment, occasionally wiping a stray tear from her eye. He listens intently until she turns to him, all playing gone.

"Sherlock, I love you." Her voice cracks, but she continues. "I may never get another chance to tell you, and I just have to let you know now, I love you. I've loved you longer than I can remember. Always different, always new, but always love."

He doesn't respond before she's wraps herself around him, the sweet taste of fruit on her breath. This is the desperation of the moment. The push and pull of their first kiss clashes against the needy comfort of the last, creating new friction where before there had been careful resistance.

Somewhere in the chaos of each other, he's pulled away her shirt, baring shoulder and breasts. The sight stops him cold, a realization of what was almost wasted. He would not plow through this moment with her. He would not allow time to be wasted without her enjoying every second. This was not an act of despair. It could not be. It was all they'd ever have.

And so he presses her back to the cool ground, watching the confusion light her eyes. His coat falls away, his naked form before her for the first time. With careful gentleness he pulls her skirt away, studying the slope of her body against the dark earth. He kisses every pulse. The tender skin of her wrists, the thundering rhythm against her neck, the quiet tap above her breasts. Every sign of life received his full attention. He may never see them again.

He trails light nips down her waist, hands warming the soft skin at her hips. He parts her legs, watching her for any resistance and receives none. She is salt and warmth and fire on his tongue, a sharp contrast to the lakka and tarts. She arches, hands curled into the grass and dirt and his name whispered in the night, when his tongue rolls over her center. The experience is as new to him as it is to her. There are no memories of this in her skin, and he is greeted only with her pleasure in the moment. With every gasp and ever sigh he feels her tip to the edge, until with a tug of his hair she slips into the abyss of euphoria. He wishes, briefly, that it lasted longer, until she looks at him with dreamy eyes and a slow smile across her lips.

He kisses her and tastes sugar once more, their bodies pressed together against the ground. He lingers in tasting her lips and feeling her breath, languishing in the softness of her body beneath his. When he joins her it is with slow, careful movements, watching the feel pass over his face. He can see so much of her life before him, and he is reminded of all the moments he missed. All the seconds he wasn't there, that she lived a life outside his lake.

So much to lose.

And still, there are no memories of this. There are dreams and there are fantasies that played out only in her mind, but nothing solid flashes behind his lids. He nibbles her neck, burying his nose against the smell of her and the wet earth. He can feel her nails in his back, can feel her hips moving against his. Every movement in time, everything cherished. Every second burned to his memory. He can feel her breath speed, her grip on him tightening. This time they go over together, clinging together to the feel of the other.

She is laying with her head against his chest, her memories flowing through every touch of skin against hers, when he sees the light in the sky. He's not ready for the moment, or the growing lapses in her speech.

"Molly, if I could save you, you would be happy, right?"

"Why would you ask that?" There's suspicion, but not enough for comfort. He can already hear the emptiness behind the words, can already feel the drag of her humanity back to the calm water.

"I may be able to save you from dying, but…" She's not looking at him, her eyes fixed on a lily floating by them. "Molly."

"Hm."

"I may be able to stop you from dying but you'll be like me."

She doesn't answer. The sky is already a gray blue, the sun fighting to peek over the horizon. Time is running out.

"Like you?"

"Not a person."

"Hm."

Desperation beats his heart against his chest. She should care. She should be afraid of this. Afraid of the prison, afraid of the implication. He should have asked her earlier. He shouldn't have waited until she was too gone to answer him.

He felt her shift against him, gripping her hand tighter as she sat up.

He hadn't expected it to start so early.

"Molly, not yet ok. Just fight a little longer. I've got to talk to you about this." He tries to keep his voice firm, but it cracks when she tugs against his hand. She's already half to standing. "Molly, please."

He's managed to barely catch her attention, eyes turning towards him. She looks at him as if he is far away, a voice floating at the end of a tunnel.

"Molly, do you want to be like me? Do you want to live here, in the water, not drowned?"

"That sounds nice."

He can't see her memories any more, can't feel the hum of her humanity against his skin. All she sends him is fog and music from years ago, years before any of this came to be. The music from her dreams, his own song so long ago.

"Molly, listen to me!" It's sharp, and cuts through her haze for a moment. "You won't be human. You won't be able to leave. It'll just be here, with me, forever."

"I won't drown?"

"No."

"I'll live?"

He's reminded of her father asking a similar question. He takes a deep breath before he looks her in the eyes. "You'll be like me. So yes, and no. But you won't be alone."

"I think…" She struggles through the call of the lake, struggles to listen to the weakening human voice inside her. "Ok. Ok, yes."

And he lets her go. He watches the light leave, watches the lake drag her away. And he follows her, step for step, fear for the possibility of failing. Fear for the possibility of succeeding.

Cradled in the water, formed of crystal ice and gemmed stone, his only hope. Steel could not save them now. Only water. Only the water could save them, as easily as it could kill them.

He moves in front of her, blocking her progression. He looks into her eyes, trying to force himself to do this. He wraps his arms around.

The dagger held in his hands is cold and heavy, a weight of possibility. He moves it forward, watches as red stains the water. He tries to tell himself she was going to drown if he didn't, that this was his only chance to save her, but the assurances feel hollow as he watches the red seep into the water. She collapses against his arms, her body small and limp and he's sure he's failed.

But the dagger remains, melting and gushing forward, washing away all that was red and warm and human. He's sure he's killed her, in every way. She's gone.

Until she shifts in his arms, just slightly. He almost thinks he's imagined it. A tiny noise, as if a child is waking. Every movement as light as breath, every sound as quiet as whispers, but she slowly comes to.

When she opens her eyes, there is red in the lilies. Sherlock touches her cool skin, feeling the rush of memories open up between them. He doesn't know if she'll be upset at him. He's unsure that she will be happy being as he is. He waits, unblinking, until she smiles at him.

"Good morning, Sherlock."

"Good morning, Molly. Happy birthday."

From that day forward, there was blood in the lilies, and music in the forest. It is said that together they could stop waterfalls, and make the trees dance.


End file.
